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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28076511">Honeysuckle Oleander</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nina_eden/pseuds/nina_eden'>nina_eden</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:15:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,051</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28076511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nina_eden/pseuds/nina_eden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter between Lady Elizabeth and Gregory Violet in between the monotony of days at Sphere Music Hall. </p><p>It only takes him two or three minutes to reach Lizzy’s side. She is walking in a daze, eyes focused straight ahead but her footsteps are unsure—shaky—and Violet fears she might stumble.</p><p>“Are you alright?” He peers down at her, cloak heavy over his shoulders.</p><p>She blinks and the action itself is groggy—as if she’s woken from a dream. Or nightmare, depending on the perspective.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elizabeth Midford &amp; Gregory Violet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Honeysuckle Oleander</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">When Lizzy returns from a session in the main chamber, she looks as somber and still as can be. Bravat, lavender haired and cheerful, walks beside her, talking animately while the young lady appears expressionless—a still doll—and that, for whatever reason, plagues Violet with indescribable concern.  </p><p class="p1">At first, he neither liked nor disliked Elizabeth Midford. At Weston, he thought her amusing and convivial; she reminded him of sunshine, lemonade, and yellow daffodils; and while he never spoke to her directly, he observed the lady with a shrewdness that betrayed his disinterested facade. She smiled brightly and seemed to affiliate herself with everyone no matter their station—though she was not gaudy in her amiability. There seemed to be an innate sweetness—a familiarity of spirit—that everyone could relate to. Violet saw that she had even gotten Lawrence Bluewer—with all his singleminded focus on academia—to engage in brief conversation.</p><p class="p1">(Later, when asked, Bluewer informed the prefects they had only spoken about cricket and the weather. Redmond insisted otherwise.)</p><p class="p1">But when Elizabeth Midford appeared at the Sphere Music Hall, Violet felt a sudden, unprecedented sliver of despair.</p><p class="p1">She shouldn’t be here.</p><p class="p1">She didn’t <em>belong </em>here.</p><p class="p1">Not happy, cheerful Lizzy Midford who seemed to attach herself to those around her—whether they be blacksmith or princeling.</p><p class="p1">He remembered her dressed in a high necked gown of rosy pink satin, white lace gloves on her hands. He could remember her smile and how Greenhill’s old friend, Edward Midford, stood guard over her, though Violet knew that physical strength mattered very little within the walls of the Music Hall. Bravat, with his mellifluous voice and honey-like prose, lured thousands to this congregation of deceit and seemed to weave a gossamer web of enchantment that left one helpless and utterly spellbound.</p><p class="p1">Perhaps it was because he was more cognizant of his sins—Violet had always been excessively introverted, to the point where his own psychoanalyses began to hold some weight over the conflicted conscious of his psyche—that he understood what Bravat was peddling. The man was a shapeshifter of wills, a mirage conjured up by the minds of the desperate, lost, and blind.</p><p class="p1">Elegant, eloquent Edgar Redmond fell victim to the man’s charms and pushed aside nobility in favor of illusion.</p><p class="p1">Clever, cosmopolitan Lawrence Bluewer—riddled with guilt and unable to cope with the devastating expulsion that had robbed him of his identity—traded rationality for pretense.</p><p class="p1">Strong, stern Herman Greenhill, who had always done right by the rules, desperately clung to the Hall as though it could wash the blood staining his hands.</p><p class="p1">The three prefects Weston once adored had burned to ash and from the smoke, Bravat had conjured up fragmented illustrations of people who once existed, warping their hearts and minds into something that was utterly unrecognizable. Violet saw this but his silence—the silence of loyalty, the silence of guilt—bound him to subservience. As a son of the blue-blooded aristocracy, he too had secrets and though his father’s wealth and mother’s name would shield him from impact, nothing would be able to minimize the crushing weight of guilt that now drowned his dreams.</p><p class="p1">He had no reason to protest—no reason to cause vexation amongst the Hall’s members. They were his friends, his <em>brothers</em>, even if Violet could sense that for all Bravat's affability, there was something darker that lurked within the halls of the bastille they now resided. </p><p class="p1">But when Gregory Violet saw Elizabeth Midford trade her wings for chains, he felt the smallest spark of the man he and his fellow prefects tried to hard to be. </p><p class="p1">Valor.</p><p class="p1">Nobility.</p><p class="p1"><em>Honor</em>. </p><p class="p1">Like the pillars of salt that'd once upheld Babylon, Gregory Violet crumbled in both soul and spirit as she passed by him, dressed in a christening gown of white lace and pale ribbon, appearing almost bloodless and ethereal in the early morning dawn.</p><p class="p1"><em>How can this be? </em>His eyes tracked her thin face, her downturned mouth. <em>How has she come to this? Half of who she was—a pale imitation. A shadow. A dream. </em></p><p class="p1">“Ah, Gregory!” Bravat smiled and Violet was overcome by a sudden urge to see his supposed mentor gone—<em>banished</em>—never to be heard from again.</p><p class="p1">“Yes?” He rarely speaks in full sentences anymore. </p><p class="p1">“Would you mind escorting our dear Eliza to her chambers? It’s been a very trying day for her.” The strange tattoos on Bravat’s arms seem to glow in an unearthly fashion, and the silver stars in his hair irritate the former prefect of Purple House. </p><p class="p1">In that moment it is arrantly clear.</p><p class="p1">Violet hates the whole theme of Bravat, hates the falsehood of it all.</p><p class="p1">But—</p><p class="p1">He looks to Elizabeth, eyes glassy and unseeing, gazing off at some unknown point within the depths of the Music Hall's maze of corridors and sealed windows. She is so small, Violet is surprised to recognize. So frail and thin with her papier-mâché skin and unhappy countenance, fingers twisting away at the material of her dress. </p><p class="p1">“Of course.” He acquiesces, because what else is there to do?</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">It only takes him two or three minutes to reach Lizzy’s side. She is walking in a daze, eyes focused straight ahead but her footsteps are unsure—shaky—and Violet fears she might stumble.</p><p class="p1">“Are you alright?” He peers down at her, cloak heavy over his shoulders.</p><p class="p1">She blinks and the action itself is groggy—as if she’s woken from a dream. Or nightmare, depending on the perspective. </p><p class="p1">Elizabeth pauses, and turns her gaze to him. Her eyes briefly sparkle with something close to recognition. “Lord Violet?” She inquires, cocking her head to the side and rubbing one fist against her eye. It’s an innocently beautiful image that Violet decides to capture, perhaps paint. “Is something the matter? Are you ill?”</p><p class="p1">He hides a grimace, not wanting her to know the exhaustion that comes with each and every blood letting session. Instead, he gives a slight nod. “Bravat wishes for me to escort you to your rooms.”</p><p class="p1">At the mention of <em>him, </em>Lizzy shrinks back, almost drawing into herself before remembering where she is. </p><p class="p1">She gives him a small smile using pale pink lips that are as faded and colorless as the rest of her. “Are you to be my compass for today?” There is a light, teasing quality to her voice—a fine, perfect mask for her unhappiness.</p><p class="p1">And her eyes—those beautiful emerald eyes—are faint. </p><p class="p1">His hands clench by his sides.</p><p class="p1">Those eyes, lackluster and half-dazed, do not suit her.</p><p class="p1">Violet places one hand on her shoulder, urging the lady to follow him to a nearby window. Sunbeams of pale gold shimmer through, lighting the marble and making it sparkle like shards of pearlescent crystal.</p><p class="p1">“Are you well, Lady Elizabeth?” He wants to break her silence. To see color in her cheeks, to see the emerald of her eyes again.</p><p class="p1">Her smile wavers—looking almost hurt that he dared to see past her facade and address her directly. Instead, she turns to the window and all he can see is the sunlit profile of her sweetly sad smile. “Do you know what I miss most, Lord Violet?” She asks gently, one hand coming to press against the glass. “Honeysuckle. I grew a great patch of honeysuckle in our gardens back home. I do wish you could have seen them. Every spring and summer, the ground was kissed by gold and all the bluejays gathered while I stood in my little patch of eden.” She looks him in the eye. “Have you a favorite flower, my lord?”</p><p class="p1">“Yes.” She has not answered his question but Violet will be kind, if only for a moment. “My favorite flower. The oleander.” He admits and his words are grave—suppressed almost. Violet has never liked the inane chatter that inevitably followed the social contact but—</p><p class="p1">There is something divine about this golden haired girl, something uncorrupted and faithful. He could almost imagine that in another life, on another shore, he might have loved her.</p><p class="p1">"The oleander?" She looks at him. "Do you grow them yourself?" </p><p class="p1">"No." Violet tries to remember what it was like before his mother died—when there were always flowers in bloom. "The gardner looks after everything in the greenhouse. I go there to sketch sometimes."</p><p class="p1">"Ah." She presses her cheek against the glass. "When you leave, will you draw more of those oleanders?" </p><p class="p1">Violet doesn't think he'll ever make it out of Sphere Music Hall in one piece. He does not know how to articulate this to a girl who appears to be half-drowned by the light of day but he endeavors, trying to string together words that might somehow give comfort. "Perhaps," he begins cautiously, "but the oleander is not a happy flower. They are a warning. A reminder of life's fragility." </p><p class="p1">"Do you think life can ever be brought back?" She asks suddenly, without preamble, surprising them both. Elizabeth's cheeks flush, a slow, rose-bloom pink seeping into her ghostly pale skin. </p><p class="p1">Violet watches in fascination as the color takes hold, bringing blood to the surface of her flesh and when she next looks at him, eyes bright with embarrassment and lips half-parted to apologize—</p><p class="p1">Violet smiles. The corner of his mouth quirking up ever so slightly at the sight of Elizabeth Midford emerging from sunlight. </p><p class="p1">"I'm sorry—"</p><p class="p1">"Don't." He shifts his cloak once more. "You have nothing to apologize for." </p><p class="p1">"It was a silly question." </p><p class="p1">"Not in the least. But to answer your query, I will say this—life can be replenished, Lady Elizabeth. Even if it cannot be brought back." </p><p class="p1">She lifts her head, blonde curls spilling past her shoulders. "But should we bring back the lives of those we've lost? What if...what if they're not meant to return?" She is desperate, almost pleading, as she looks to him for answers he does not have.</p><p class="p1">"Is this choice ruled by guilt?" He inquires. "Or something else? People who we bring back out of remorse or guilt are ghosts we can never be rid of." He knows all too well what happens when one tries to chase after a dead dream.</p><p class="p1">It morphs, twisting into something unrecognizable until it traps you within its walls and all you're left with is a half-remembered dream of what could have been.</p><p class="p1">It only takes one look at Redmond—at Bluewer and Greenhill—and Violet knows. They're all trapped here, whether they like it or not, and redemption (for whatever it's worth) would continuously elude them. </p><p class="p1">Glancing down, he sees Elizabeth's brows furrow, the whirling of her mind beginning to take hold. </p><p class="p1">It's the most lucid she's been since arriving at Sphere Music Hall one misty spring day, hair slightly damp from the London rain and lips almost blue with the cold. </p><p class="p1">He brushes one hand against her shoulder, jolting Elizabeth from her rumination. </p><p class="p1">"Your rooms?" He points down the hall.</p><p class="p1">The girl blinks. </p><p class="p1">Once.</p><p class="p1">Twice—</p><p class="p1">"Will you..." she turns to glance down the empty corridor. "Might you have time to walk with me?" She sounds so hopeful, even after spending so much time chained to Bravat's side, visiting closed chamber doors and returning with empty eyes and fragile smiles.</p><p class="p1">He decides choir practice can wait. </p><p class="p1">"Of course." He stands, offering her his hand.</p><p class="p1">She smiles at him—a real smile, not quite as bright as the ones she gave at Weston, and certainly nowhere near as happy. But Violet takes pride in knowing it was he who placed this smile on Elizabeth's lips, that it was he who managed to offer her some solace while they remained her, wandering between marble walls and stifled whispers. </p><p class="p1">"Thank you." She takes his hand, fingertips brushing against his palm before Violet, in an act of impulse, threads his fingers through hers. </p><p class="p1">"If I may?" He asks afterwards, when their palms press against each other and their fingers are intertwined. (It is rare, so rare, to find comfort these days.)</p><p class="p1">As if Elizabeth can hear his thoughts, she squeezes his hand, this bright, strange, sad creature who only blooms under dappled sunlight and who looks to Violet as if he might be the answer to her prayers. "You may." She smiles again, pulling him forward as they walk side by side, down the marble corridor. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>- Babylon: a symbol of worldliness and evil; sometimes a link between the kings of Babylon and Lucifer.<br/>- Honeysuckle represented happiness in Victorian times.<br/>- Oleanders represented warning/caution.</p><p>A/N: I genuinely do not know if Violet is part of the aristocracy or not but here, I’m headcanon-ing that he is. (What do you think—a barony? Earldom? Something else?)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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